


said go tell my disciples

by voodoochild



Category: Carnivale
Genre: Awesome Ladies Ficathon, F/M, Post-Canon, Sibling Incest, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-06-28
Updated: 2010-06-28
Packaged: 2017-10-10 07:32:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 277
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/97219
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/voodoochild/pseuds/voodoochild
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The waiting is the hardest part.</p>
            </blockquote>





	said go tell my disciples

**Author's Note:**

> Written for LadyFest '10, for the prompt "I long for some terrific disaster". Spoilers for the series finale.

The waiting is the hardest part.

Iris knows - she _knows_, deep in her blood somehow - that Justin is alive. She has stopped questioning, stopped asking "why" and "how", and now she wants to know "when". Can feel him, thrumming beneath the surface of her mind and it's like he never left.

She makes her preparations, makes everything ready. _Prepare ye the way of the Lord, make his paths straight_, and Iris fixes things, the way she always has. She gathers the remaining migrants, instructs them in the burial of the dead. She goes to talk to the sheriffs who come out to New Canaan and calms them.

No, that carnival was responsible for the deaths. Snuck off in the dead of night. Probably halfway to Sacramento by now.

And then there is her niece, who stumbled back early that morning weak, but triumphant. Iris knows Sofie has done something but will not tell her what it is. She cleans and bandages the cuts on the girl's hands, sits her at her own vanity and brushes all the tangles out of her hair, and guides her to sleep in her room. Sofie has done well, whatever Iris's personal distaste for the girl. She is family.

The third day after the Carnivale packed up shop, a wind blows through New Canaan, and Iris sets down her kitchen knife. There is a tall, if bedraggled figure in the distance, and his presence beats a relentless tempo through her body. She doesn't need to hear the awed shouts of the migrants, nor see the familiar blue eyes, the stain of blue blood still clinging to his skin.

Her brother has returned.


End file.
